


as it turns out

by sunflowerbright



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bahorel can cook, Enjolras is also tired of his two best friends not knowing how they feel about each other, Enjolras really can't, Grantaire is amazingly skilled, M/M, What have I written, combeferre and courfeyrac are confused babies who cannot communicate properly, this pairing usually makes me happy how did i make it angsty?, warnings for combeferre swearing omg, warnings for people being drunk, warnings for swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-18 06:51:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/876867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflowerbright/pseuds/sunflowerbright
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Courfeyrac just looks at him, like a big lost puppy, and Combeferre is not a violent man, but he really almost wants to punch him in that moment. </i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>“Please stay,” he says then, because if Courfeyrac leaves now, he has a sinking feeling that he is never coming back. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	as it turns out

 

The first time is all fumbling hands in the dark and Courfeyrac giggling because he has had too much to drink, and Combeferre cursing, _cursing,_ he never curses, but this seems the appropriate moment to start.

“Did you just say _fuck_?” Courfeyrac says, and breaks down into laughter, and the rest, as they say, is history.

Only not quite.

They both wake up the next day with headaches, and Courfeyrac scurries out of Combeferre’s flat, quick as a leaf in the wind, and Combeferre is too busy nursing a hangover, something he _isn’t used to, dammit_ , and it isn’t until hours later, at their meeting, that it becomes apparent.

Courfeyrac avoids him like the plague. It is not outward. It is not apparent. Not even Enjolras, the one person who knows the two of them the best, catches on at first.

It is merely that he treats Combeferre like he has always done: like he is a friend.

Not like there was skin stroked, and heated whispers, and Combeferre saying _‘I love you_ ’ and immediately regretting it, because Courfeyrac stills above him, but then the other man had leaned down and kissed him hard, pulling away to smile and say _‘you are the loveliest thing I have ever beheld’_ and Combeferre had been _happy_ , until he had awoken that was.

It had been a night ago. It feels like longer.

“Hey,” Courfeyrac says to him as Combeferre reaches for his jacket, ready to leave: it is late, the night growing darker, and he has classes tomorrow, early even. He needs his sleep, especially as he did not get much the other night.

He is blushing and is just about to reach out for him, because Courfeyrac is looking at him in a way he hadn’t since the night before, but then the other man falters and turns away, and Combeferre can feel his heart thud to the bottom of his stomach.

He tells himself he is not crying as he walks home.

It is three days before Enjolras notices.

“Did you get in an argument?” he asks, and Combeferre shrugs, because to be completely fair and honest, _he doesn’t know_. He doesn’t know what he’s done.

But clearly he has done something.

He sees Courfeyrac flirting with a girl in the bar, sees him walk home with a young man that it takes a moment for Combeferre to recognize as someone _from his class_ , and it’s a knife twisting in his heart, to see that. Courfeyrac doesn’t look back at him.

At night, he dreams of brown hair, different shades revealed when the sunlight catches hold of it, of wide eyes and a teasing smile. Sex with Courfeyrac had been fun, as had been expected, but the man had also been tender, had been attentive and serious when it as needed, had held Combeferre like he mattered which is… not something he had really tried earlier.

He tells himself it doesn’t matter. He tells himself that Courfeyrac has had countless lovers. That he was just another. He tells himself that plenty of people have sex for the sake of sex, and there is nothing wrong with that, and he had sex with one of his best friends and that is okay.

Things can go back to normal.

It is about three weeks after that night, that Combeferre realises it really can’t, because he is in love with Courfeyrac. As he had confessed; as he had been drunk enough to realise, and then sober enough to hide away, even from himself.

He is in love with soft hands in the dark, with brown hair and eyes that always smile, even when the soul behind them is being serious. He is in love with exaggerated words and sneaky whispers, with the way people roll their eyes and listen with half an ear at someone they perceive a fool. He is in love with the way people will suddenly stop and falter, because they realise the fool is right. He is in love with sunshine falling on freckles barely there to be noticed. He is in love with slender fingers playing the piano so badly that Grantaire laughs and laughs and laughs and stops him to show him how it’s done. He’s in love with clever words and easy smiles.

He doesn’t come to the next meeting.

That is when Courfeyrac seeks him out.

“Enjolras said you were sick,” the other man mumbles, standing in the doorway and looking awkward, an odd thing, because Courfeyrac never looks awkward. Courfeyrac is in his right place in the pyramids as much as in an igloo. He owns the rooms he walks into.

He’s currently holding a can of what looks like soup, and a plastic-bag of different medicine and vitamins. The bag is probably from Joly. The soup could be either Enjolras or Courfeyrac himself, in which case, Combeferre will definitely not be eating it. If it’s Bahorel or Musichetta, he might change his mind.

“You don’t look sick,” Courfeyrac mumbles then, eyes raking over him.

“I just needed some peace and quiet,” Combeferre says, perhaps a bit too sharply, because Courfeyrac’s gaze burns – it has been away from him too long. He is off-balance now that it is back.

“Ah,” Courfeyrac startles slightly, moving as if to turn away. “I’ll just…”

“No, wait!” Combeferre reaches out, to steady him, hold him, keep him in place, but he can’t do either of those things, it would not be fair to either of them, so he ends up awkwardly taking the soup from his friend _(friend_ , _the word burns like it shouldn’t)_ instead.

“Come in.”

Courfeyrac obliges with a smile that isn’t quite genuine. Fortunately he has been here enough times: he throws himself onto the sofa, sprawled like a large cat, completely at home. Combeferre has to swallow harshly and turn away at the sight, walking quickly into the small kitchen to heat up the soup that may have gone cold in the chill of the evening. Courfeyrac’s legs had been spread and he’d been leaning against the pillows with his eyes closed and…

He slams the microwave shut a little too harshly. Which is unfair, because it is really not the microwaves fault, and he makes sure to tell it that and…

“Are you _apologising_ to the microwave??”

Combeferre has _no idea_ when the hell Courfeyrac got from the sofa to the kitchen, and he jumps and spills burning hot soup on his hand, and curses like a sailor.

Combeferre never curses. The last time he’d cursed had been…

He curses again, as he walks over to put his hand under the tab, soothing the burn. He jumps in surprise when Courfeyrac appears behind him, gently cradling his hand under the water.

“Are you alright?” he asks, and something inside Combeferre breaks.

“No,” he says, shoving the other man away slightly and scowling. Because he cannot be a saint all the time.

He regrets it as soon as he glances up to see Courfeyrac’s hurt look.

“Right,” the other man says. “I’m sorry. Clearly my presence is not wanted.”

It’s an old game: Courfeyrac putting up offended airs to mask how hurt he really is. And usually Combeferre would simply let it slide by or ask him to stop, because he is his friend and he knows it, and he has spent years building a safe zone for him, for all of them, where they can be themselves and where someone will not instantly judge them for their defensive mechanisms, but he is tired and in love with someone who seems to have a different body to enjoy each and every night, and he is worn thin.

“ _Your fucking presence,”_ he hisses, and really, Combeferre never swears. This is all Courfeyrac’s fault. “Your _presence,_ Courfeyrac, has been wanted ever since I met you. But apparently the sentiment is not returned!”

Courfeyrac’s eyes widen in shock. “What…”

“Apparently,” Combeferre continues, yanking his hand out under the cold spray and turning off the water. “You find it easy to not only take advantage of me while I am drunk, but to then pretend like nothing happened afterwards.”

He regrets those words as well, because that is not what had happened. They had both been drunk, they had both been willing and giggling and… and two friends having fun, and Courfeyrac had asked him _‘are you okay with this?’_ and had slowed down when Combeferre had told him to, in the hallway when the other man had started tugging Combeferre’s shirt over his head, and really, public area, Courfeyrac _(they’d both almost broken ribs laughing about that)_ , and there is nothing wrong with causal sex, but clearly there is something wrong with Combeferre, because he cannot separate the two and he cannot accept that that was all there as to it.

Courfeyrac has gone pale as a sheet, staring at him.

“You…” he whispers. “ _Fuck_ , Combeferre, I am so sorry!”

“No, wait!” he’s panicked now. “No, I don’t… that’s not. I’m sorry, I’m acting out… you didn’t take advantage of me, we were both… look, can we just try to forget about that night altogether?” the words are said between clenched teeth. Because he doesn’t want to forget. He cannot forget. No matter how hard he’s tried.

“Yes,” Courfeyrac mumbles then, and he sounds… defeated. “If that’s what you want.”

Combeferre cannot help it, he snorts at that, and Courfeyrac’s head shoots back up, staring at him.

He knows him too well, Combeferre realises.

But Courfeyrac says nothing. He just looks at him, like a big lost puppy, and Combeferre is not a violent man, but he really almost wants to punch him in that moment.

“Please stay,” he says then, because if Courfeyrac leaves now, he has a sinking feeling that he is never coming back.

“Enjolras yelled at me,” the other man finally gets out. “He said that I’d been unfair to you. But I don’t… how have I been unfair to you, Combeferre? I don’t… please tell me if I’ve done something to make you angry?”

“You haven’t,” Combeferre immediately says. Too quickly.

“Please tell me.”

“There is nothing to say.”

“You are my best friend,” Courfeyrac says, and the words are daggers to the heart. “You can tell me anything.”

“Not this,” Combeferre whispers, watching his friend’s face shift in pain. Courfeyrac reaches for him then, and Combeferre almost throws caution to the wind in order to reach back.

“There is nothing to say,” he repeats, and Courfeyrac retreats.

And then he suddenly looks angry.

“It’s not _easy_ , you know,” he mumbles. “Being in love with someone who is smarter and quicker than everyone else! It’s not easy having known someone for so long that he sees you as a brother, and the moment you finally get a chance, you wake up and realise that alcohol has made sure it will only happen once!”

Courfeyrac looks stunned even at his own words. Not that Combeferre notices. His heart is beating out of control.

“What…”

“Fuck!” Courfeyrac’s pale again, Combeferre notes. It makes his freckles stand out even more.

“Fuck!” he repeats, and Combeferre almost, almost laughs. Only his friend is obviously distressed, that kicked puppy-look back, and he cannot stand to see anyone, least of all Courfeyrac, like that.

“Enjolras really yelled at you?”

“He did,” Courfeyrac murmurs sheepishly. “And I don’t… please ignore, what I said…”

“I love you,” Combeferre interrupts him, because he feels like he can be rude in a situation like this. He’s _never_ rude, not even to Enjolras when the other man gets going. He is allowed his moments. “You foolish man. Did you not know that I love you?”

Courfeyrac stares at him in shock. “No,” he manages to get out.

“Didn’t I tell you that I loved you?”

“To be fair,” Courfeyrac’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, and Combeferre is mesmerised by its path. “To be completely fair, you were drunk when you said it.”

Combeferre laughs, and kisses him to shut him up.

It’s Courfeyrac’s turn to whisper heated confessions against his skin that night. _‘I love you’_ is just one of many, as it turns out.

 

**Author's Note:**

> this was written in a rush, in the evening while I was tired, so sorry for the poor editing and poor quality in general. I have work tomorrow, I really should not be writing fic, only this pairing suddenly got a hold of me and wouldn't leave me alone again. I blame Jess and Martina, as always.


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